


Like Real People Do

by lesbiansinoctober



Category: American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Angst, F/F, Gore, Homophobia, Murder, bc that's what we deserve, lesbian violet harmon, messing w dead bodies but not necrophilia idk what to call it, remember youre going to die in there? me neither, will add as it comes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-10-23 02:53:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17675069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbiansinoctober/pseuds/lesbiansinoctober
Summary: Their hands brushed again. Swiftly, Violet had laced her fingers through Sami’s. This would make 27 times they’ve touched. 3 of those were their lips, so maybe those should count double.





	1. A-N-G-E-L

**Author's Note:**

> ending as of 5-29-19 to say i probably won't finish this soz

Their hands brushed again. Swiftly, Violet had laced her fingers through Sami’s. This would make 27 times they’ve touched. 3 of those were their lips, so maybe those should count double. In life, she could count the number of hands she’s held on one. Her mother’s, for the first 12 years at least. Her father’s for two more. That was about it. Now, she beats those thoughts aside, spaces between her fingers filled with the cold of Violet, and smiles.  
Their heads clash in the center of the bed. Straight, light brown hair meets curly dark in the middle, knotting together the more they laugh and shake. Violet’s feet dangle off the end of the bed. Her socked toes brush the floor in a pattering rhythm. If she weren’t so distracted, Sami might’ve been annoyed by them. Sami has been disconnected for the past few sentences or so. Violet’s voice is soft in the hum of the house and it becomes a white noise for a moment.  
Violet nudges her side with an elbow. “Hey, Sam, where’d you go?”  
“What? No where.” The reply is fast, a defense.  
“No, what are you thinkin’ about?” Sami always expects her to be harsher. To nip at her with words, with her fingers if she really needed. Sami would wind around Violet and hang off of every word she said, if Violet wanted her to. Instead, Violet presses a soft kiss to Sami’s thumb. “What is it?”  
Sami laughs. “The Girl, Interrupted soundtrack.”  
Violet’s eyes crease, and she turns to face Sami. “You know Girl, Interrupted?” She hasn’t asked much about Sami’s life yet. There are so many souls here, each with a picture of the world Violet could never understand burned into their brains. Sami would never see 2013, but Violet would never see 1880, or 1940. Neither of them would see 2020, or 2070. Still, it made her feel good that they might’ve been alive at the same time, once. .  
“Yeah, how old do you think I am?” Sami’s nose whistles with her inhale. “I used to sit in the back of the movie theater for hours. I’d stuff my backpack with cokes and gummy worms and sit behind the last row of chairs. I think they must’ve known I was there, sometimes, ‘cause they’d play the movies even if no one else was in the theater. I must’ve seen that movie a hundred times.”  
“Oh,” is all Violet can reply.  
The silence stretches for only a few moments. Sami closes the distance between their faces. She’s seen Violet do this with Tate dozens of times; she’s memorized the way his hand would cup her face or her hip, moving her hands the same. She thought, sometimes, he’d seen her there. He’d act a little more brash, a little more reckless, and turn so Sami could see Violet just right. She had hated him for it then. Now, she acts out these same motions. Her hands grace Violet’s cheeks while her lips move between, above, around, below. Their teeth clink once, but neither of them are really paying attention.  
Violet’s hands take over now, deviating from the narrative Sami had practiced. She touches her neck, her ear, her chest, her hip, and finally settles to dig herself a spot under Sami’s shirt.  
“Wait, Vi, I…” Sami breathes. She hadn’t practiced this part. She hadn’t wrapped her brain around the touches she couldn’t count and how she didn’t have any control.  
Violet’s face twists, pulling her hands away. “You don’t want to.” She thinks it’s a question but it comes out as an accusation.  
“No, no way, that’s not what I mean.” The words tumble out, but Violet’s already stood. “Vi, don’-”  
“Don’t tell me what to do.”  
Violet’s aware that she’s being harsh. If she’d been keeping track, she’d have noticed that she’s harsher now, since Tate. She’s not keeping track, though-she’s spiraling. Her thoughts start at 'she thinks I’m gross', which bounces to, 'I’m not even gay', to, worst of all, 'she’ll never be Tate anyways'. She has the sense not to share this thought with Sami, but she thinks it nonetheless.  
Sami stares at Violet. In her head, she begs Violet to say something.  
“You should go, Sam.”  
Sami pulls her shirt down with shaking hands, nodding. “Yeah, you’re right.” She knew this was coming, didn’t she?

When she’s alone again, Sami doesn’t stop from reminiscing. Tonight she hasn’t the energy. She was 15 when they moved into the house. She can remember the smell. Her mother’s research was finally, finally getting somewhere. Her father had promised that once this project was over, she’d lighten up. Even before, Sami’s mother had been harsh on the cleanliness, the order, the precision her family was to uphold.  
The house only exacerbated the problem. That is to say, the murder house loved Sami’s mother. It adored her delusion, feeding the petri dishes she spread throughout the study with its best. It was obsessed with her obsessions. It left fingerprints on its doors where it was sure she'd look. It turned her books to the pages that fed her fantasies just right. And, of course, it tortured her daughter. Her mother dove into the sexual sin of man, the filth that pours out from people and their moral transgressions. Her daughter, on the other hand, poured over images of Winona Ryder with that haircut.  
A house could be cleaned. The surfaces could be covered in alcohol and wiped down. Their utensils could be boiled and sterilized. They could shirk off clothes that touched outside air with pinched fingers and toss them in hampers covered in plastic. Even hands could be cleaned. But her daughter?  
Sami could never stomach the scent of antiseptic again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thots?


	2. partie a jamias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> flashback from last chapter.

Fear has become a texture in the house. Violet can run her fingers along the wall and discern where it starts. In the bathroom she can feel it grow sticky on the tiles. In the basement, it’s slathered thick over doors, on windowsills, in holes in the wall. She feels it on Beau’s ball when she rolls it back to him.   
It coats her throat now, sitting next to her mother and holding her baby brother. Jeffrey coos and coughs, settling in her arms and falling asleep again. Vivienne looks on with a smile. This is her daughter. Her son. Her husband stands close by. This is a family. Something bright enough to block out the filth and grime that covers the house.   
Violet, however, wants to run. She itches with the thought of the family she has around her. Death has already stripped them of what it could, but she has learned not to underestimate what the house will do. Her brother sleeps comfortably. The thought is enough to make her sick.   
She’s running out of the room before she’s finished the thought.   
“Trouble in paradise?” Tate’s voice pulls her out of her head. His smile is crooked and cocky. “Never thought you’d come out.”   
She barely hears him. Violet runs. Air or something would be good right about now. When she was alive, she’d hurt herself at moments like this. The thought entertains her for a moment. Blood like that is something she hasn’t seen since they scared the last family out.   
She abandons that thought as soon as she sees the door.  
Wind whips her hair around. It fills her ears but it’s a little comforting to drown everything else out. It’s never as cold here as it was in Boston, but the chill shocks her a bit. She can’t remember the last time she’s gone outside. Though, to know that she’d have to have a concept of passing time at all. Violet catches her breath in the backyard, bending over and gasping. Far away, Jeffrey cries and she can barely make it out. In front of her, children she doesn’t think she’s seen before laugh.   
“Good kids,” someone says behind her. The voice is shaky, like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to be heard.  
“Larry’s?” Violet questions. She turns to look at the person.  
She nods. She looks young. Violet doesn’t remember seeing her, dead or alive. “You Larry’s?”   
The girl laughs. “Yeah, can’t you see the family resemblance?” She pulls her arm up to her chest and limps around in a circle.   
Violet laughs, too. Her throat feels clear. The girls eyes drift back to the softly smoldering children playing. “Lotta kids here,” Violet says, offhandedly.   
The girl chokes out a laugh. “Not quite small talk, there,” she says, “but, yeah. I mean, we’re not adults.”  
“Bullshit,” Vi responds. “I’m as adult as I’ll ever be.”   
The girl cocks her head a little. “Guess so.” She whistles on her exhale, filling the silence for a moment. “Violet, right?”  
Violet nods. “You?”  
“Sami.”   
Larry’s daughters chase each other around the yard. They never quite catch each other, but they switch who’s chasing who. Violet taps her foot. “I should probably go back. My brother...” She trails off.  
Sami nods. “Why’d you leave?” The question slips out.  
“Dunno,” Violet says, quiet. With that, she returns into the house.  
“Fuck,” is all Sami can reply.

Sami pulls herself into the crawlspace under the house. Her knees scrape on the ground, beading up with dots of blood. She moves on hands and knees until she settles in her spot.   
Violet’s body still lays down here. Sami moved it long ago, just to the side so she could have some space. Now, bones peak through the tips of her fingers. Her nose is sunken in. Green, fat bugs slide down her cheeks like tears. She doesn’t look like the Violet up there looked.   
“Violet,” Sami whispers. She pushes straw-like hair aside. She taps a finger to the wet skin of her cheek. A brief thought is spared to wonder how long the skin will even be there.  
Anger splashes up. It’s cool and damp like the skin on Violet’s pained face. Sami’s angry.   
That’s one she hasn’t seen in a while.  
“Fuck!” She doesn’t worry about being loud. She rips fat slugs off of Violet, throwing them. She bats flies away.  
She digs her fingernails into the skin. It slips off smoothly. She pushes her fingers into the wet hollows where eyes had been. She pulls teeth out of her throat, where they had fallen ages ago. She screams, screams and digs and pulls and pinches and yanks until she doesn’t recognize the body anymore.   
And she cries. Finally, alone underneath the house, Sami lets herself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry these are all so short i'm just incapable of writing long things rn.


	3. big and yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder/explanation that sami's mother is v from youre going to die in there. a couple of her quotes are directly from it.

Sami had always found her mother beautiful. Her hair would go bright orange in the summer sun, skin freckled and peachy. Sami had always been jealous that her own curly mess was so much browner. They would read on the porch. Her mother would hold some book too large for any person to enjoy, drawing in the margins and writing down what caught her eye. Sami would sit across from her, comic books or library books perched in her hands the same as her mother. She’d hold a pencil behind her ear, too, even though she wasn’t allowed to write in books that weren’t hers. Every little while, Sami would glance up at her mother, matching the facial expression she had on. When she’d retire to bed, Sami would sneak to her office and pull the books out, one by one. She’d trace the letters her mother wrote with her fingers, brain barely understanding words about tribes and peoples she’d never see. Crisp, yellowing paper would crinkle under her touch, then bright white ones with heavy binding. Languages, culture, sin, destruction and creation laced through the pages, but Sami didn’t really care to understand the intricacies. If she did, she’d wish for her mother to explain it. Instead, she just wanted to see. Would she come to carry the worry her mother did?   
Summers turned to winters turned to summers again and her mother grew older. Red hair would dull. She wouldn’t sit on the porch. She would write. Her fingers would fly over the keyboard until the early morning, and then she’d only rest a few hours. Sami never got the time to sneak in the office, see what it was she had been putting down. She supposed she could imagine it anyways. Just before they moved, she started an eternal fridge dialogue. Little, ever-so-passive-aggressive notes telling Sami to clean her dishes correctly, telling Sami’s father to leave her work alone. Telling both of them to leave her alone.  
The small, sticky note dialogue, almost prayer, almost demands, was about all Sami saw of her mother once they had settled in California.   
That settling brought something new, though. Sami and her father grew close, both to each other, and to a creeping suspicion. An uneasy feeling, like you can’t ever just settle down. Her father knew, he practically begged for it to give him space. Time. Sami might have begged, probably. Like that stupid, stupid frog, her death boiled up around her. She didn’t think to beg.  
“Sam? Are you home?” Her mother’s voice traveled down the hall with a waver. “Dear, come downstairs.”  
She had half a thought to pretend she wasn’t home, but her mother’s tone was much lighter than it was when she was going to scold her. Might as well see, right? “Yeah, okay.”  
Bare feet hit cold wooden floors. A bitter smell, some cleanser and some metallic mix, grows stronger. As she turns to face her, Sami sees her mother, really looks, for the first time. Maybe ever, maybe since their summers on the porch. Once greyed hair was restored to its same brightness. Her eyes were golden and cheery. Her face had color, tan and freckles deeper than any summer.  
Her hands were soaked in deep red.   
“Samantha, don’t think I’m stupid. I’m not stupid, you know.” Her voice had forgotten any waver.  
“Mom, I’ve been cleaning, I swear. I don’t come through the barrier without doing it, promise,” Sami says. Her words spill out too quick and trip over each other.  
Her mother smiles, tongue clicking. “The barrier is useless now. You can’t clean it, Samantha. You can’t clean it off of you, dear. It’s inside of you.” Her hands wring the air in front of her.  
“What?” Sami takes a step back.  
“I told you I’m not stupid, darling.” Her mother steps forward to match. “I could never, ever clean it off of you, because it’s inside of you. You’re dirty, Sam, filthy.”  
“Where’s dad?”  
“Does it matter? I’ve learned things, Sam. He allowed it. He could have contaminated our daughter, I’ll never know. His special treatment is only strengthening the disease. Your disease, Samantha.” Her mother spoke slowly.  
“Mom,” Sami says, “mom, please. What are you talking about?”  
“Have you kissed a woman, Samantha? Have you touched one?” Her mother barely pauses for an answer. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. You will one day, won’t you?”  
“Momma, I…” She doesn’t really have an explanation. Tears have started falling without warning.  
Her mother’s sick smile flickers, hands rushing to brush tears off her daughter’s face. “No, no, dear, it’s okay. Momma’s going to fix it,” She says softly. “Moral weakness, darling, will bring bodily weakness. We can’t decontaminate you, no, but… We can stop it, can’t we?”  
Sami pushes her mother off, stumbling to the ground. She sobs, no words to say. She makes no moves to get up.  
“I know, darling. But you’re too far gone. Your body is already weak, can’t you see? You’re decaying, you’ll die anyway. At least now you’ll finally be clean.”  
Tears catch in her throat and she chokes out a “momma”. Her mother, standing over her, smile wide and eyes wider, doesn’t react.   
“Don’t worry, Samantha. No one will have to know. You’ll be clean.”   
Blood, skin, bits of undigested food would cover the floor when the three of them were found. Sami’s father, locked in the study, bleach filling his aching stomach. Sami’s mother, cowered in the corner, fingernails bitten off entirely, dehydrated and shriveled. And Sami, on the living room floor, intestines spread around her, hollowed out stomach filled with antiseptic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that everything is short i'm just garbage. let me kno ur thots!!


End file.
